


Fine Game of Nil

by GVSpurlock



Category: Blindspot (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Alcohol, Amnesia, Explicit Language, Fix-It, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Here There Be Spoilers, Not Shippy, Pizza, Post Episode: s01e10, Post-Fall Finale, Trauma, anger issues, tattooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5348546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GVSpurlock/pseuds/GVSpurlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zapata and Reade have a talk. Patterson gets a tattoo. Jane knows some things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine Game of Nil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [water_bby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/water_bby/gifts).



> Author's notes: This picks up immediately where "Evil Handmade Instrument" (fall finale) leaves off and will certainly be canon-shafted come 29/2/16. In the meantime, though, allons-y! water_bby, a very happy holiday to you. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

His hands were gentle as he released her from her bonds and tucked a clump of wet hair behind her ear. 

"Oscar?" Jane ventured, eyes wide and riveted to his forearm.

Her mystery man with the tree tattoo gave her a small smile. "You need to go now.” "

What? Wha--no. I have... I have so many questions. I need to know how this happened. Why did I do this? How are you here?”

Oscar plucked her pleading hands from his jacket lapels and kissed each one. "I have to clean this up. Quickly. You must leave. I promise, I'll be here for you. Go," he insisted, pushing her out the door. 

Jane hesitated for a long moment, glancing at the very-dead Carter lying in a pool of his own blood, wiped her nose, and left.

Oscar picked up a burner. "I need Andromeda and her team," he informed the other end of the line.

Jane, out of sight but not earshot, added another entry to her mental list of meteorological and astronomical code names.

 

* * *

 

Reade knocked furiously on the door.

“I know you’re in there. You owe me an explanation. Three lines and a signature? You open this door right now or I’m going to sic Jane, Weller, _and_  Puppy-Eyes Patterson on your ass. Open the damn door, Tash.”

A passing neighbor was treated to a dirty look and ignored. Reade heard a ‘thud’ against the door.

“Puppy-Eyes,” he threatened.

Zapata opened the door, somewhat disheveled, clutching a bottle of unidentifiable spirits. She leaned against the doorframe, took a swig, and toasted him defiantly. Reade was struck by her fluffy slippers and well-loved, threadbare robe. She’d never struck him as a comfort creature. 

“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” she informed him, voice steady.

Reade scoffed, shouldering his way into the apartment.

“Come on in,” she invited the empty hallway before kicking the door shut.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” he demanded.

Zapata opened her mouth to reply.

“Rhetorical question. For the record, I’m _not_.”

She shuffled into the kitchen and fished around in a mostly-bare cabinet before withdrawing a sparkly red plastic cup emblazoned with the faded logo of the pizza place down the street. Pouring a healthy measure, she thrust the cup into his hands before ignoring him in favor of collapsing on the couch to stare at the muted game.

“You forget, Tash, I know you.”

Zapata hummed something that could have been agreement and propped her feet up on the coffee table. One slipper dangled jauntily off her foot.

“So you came here looking for answers then, smart guy? Did my _not_  telling you somehow translate into a cry for help? Newsflash. I didn’t make a big announcement for a reason. I’m just gonna go. Tomorrow, to be precise. But you just had to find it tonight and ruin my last few hours in the city. Congratulations, Agent Reade. You made it _just_ in time to make this awkward.”

After this veritable monologue, she took a long pull from the bottle. Reade watched her throat ripple and noticed she didn’t wince at the unadulterated alcohol. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but swirled it in the plastic tumbler, reminding him heavily of his college days.

“I saw your face,” Reade said softly. “I knew there was something wrong. I didn’t realize it was this wrong. What’s going on?”

She rubbed a hand over her face tiredly. “What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about this’ wasn’t clear?”

“We can fix this,” he insisted. “But not alone. We’re a team.”

Zapata rolled her eyes at his earnestness. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you. Mr. 'She’s A Liability, Weller.’”

Reade drew back, offended. “That’s an entirely different issue. We’re agents. We’re partners, Tash. Don’t give up on this so easily.”

“You think this is easy? This isn’t easy! I’m leaving my entire life and I’m doing it for the team. Don’t you dare tell me I’m giving up.” Her voice wasn’t steady now, cracking and rising in volume with every word. 

They sat in silence for a while. Reade thought carefully about his next argument, trying to separate himself from the emotion that was settling, sour, in his stomach. Why did she let him in? If she didn’t want to talk, if she didn’t think it could be fixed… why not pretend she wasn’t home when he knocked? He hadn’t really known whether or not she was on the other side of the door. What was one more lie? On top of the clearly momentous pile of untruths she was resting on… did she just want to say goodbye? He wouldn’t know until he asked, but her expression was closed and she was carefully avoiding his gaze.

He reached for her hand and she startled a bit. 

“What could be so bad? What’s this unforgivable sin you’ve committed?”

Zapata stared at the ceiling, clenching her jaw tightly.

“I won’t judge,” he promised. He hoped it was one he could keep.

“No?” she asked wryly, still staring at the ceiling. “Your imagination blows, Reade.”

“Prove it.”

* * *

Patterson stared mutely at her cellphone. She had no one to call. No one who could even possibly understand… well, anything. And even if they could… it’s classified. She knew that all too well, now, and would never endanger another person with that knowledge. 

Without context, David’s death was just one of those senseless acts of violence typical of a big city. Without context, his bravery was meaningless. Without context, her guilt was senseless. Without context, everything was  _less_. He deserved more. He deserved everything.

She couldn’t return to the apartment. _Their_  apartment, she knew now. But she wasn’t sure where she was going until she got there. 

“Good evening, Agent Patterson,” said the taller half of Jane’s protection detail.

“Um. Yes. Hi. Good evening,” she replied, not prepared for a conversation. “I’m, uh, I’m here for Jane.”

“Very good, ma’am,” he said, giving her a brief smile and turning away.

She knocked on the door. There was no answer for a very long minute. Patterson crossed her arms over her chest, trying to rub some warmth into her upper arms, and fidgeting with the strap of her purse. Deciding this was a terrible idea, she turned away when the door opened. A gust of stale, warm air hit her back.

“Patterson?” Jane’s light voice, laden with concern, was something of a balm. Patterson turned and gasped at the vivid red marks at her wrists. 

“Oh my god! What happened?” she asked, reaching for Jane’s wrists. Jane stepped back, smiling to ease the sting of her avoidance.

“Long story. Come in?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks.”

She followed Jane through the still house, footsteps creaking in the hallway. The other woman was wearing her standard white tank and black pants with a towel draped over her shoulders. 

“Do you have company?” she asked, unsure of how much she actually wanted to know about the marks.

Jane huffed out a small laugh. “No, no. Just me. Please, sit down.” 

The living room was not very lived in. Patterson sat gingerly on the dingy sofa, letting her purse fall onto the cushion to her left.

“Can I get you anything?” her host inquired kindly.

“No, no thank you.”

Patterson twisted her hands in her lap. “I don’t want to be alone right now,” she blurted.

Jane sat to her right and took that hand in her own. “Of course you don’t. But… wouldn’t you rather be with your family?” she asked, confused concern written all over her face.

She drew a deep breath, refusing to cry in Jane’s arms again. “I can’t talk to them.”

“No, you can’t, can you? Well. Please make yourself at home. We can send one of the guys out for a toothbrush and stuff. Do you need anything from your place?”

“Um, actually, I was kind of hoping we could go out for a little bit?”

“Oh?”

“Iwanttogetatattoo,” she said quickly. 

The other woman repeated her little huffing laugh from earlier, bringing a tiny smile to Patterson’s face. She hadn’t really known Jane had a sense of humor. It made her a little more human. Insofar as a ninja goddess could be human.

“I don’t know a whole lot about tattoos,” Jane said apologetically. 

“Right. Right, but. Moral support? I just want them to take me seriously.”

Jane nodded, rubbing the back of her neck. “Where do you want to go?”

Patterson blushed. “I found a place on Yelp.”

“Well, no time like the present.”

She was relieved Jane hadn’t asked what she wanted inked on her skin. She didn’t think she could talk about it without crying again. And she was done with crying. For today, anyway.

* * *

The tattoo shop was visually overwhelming but pristinely clean. The artist she’d scoped out was intimidating from the waiting area, working intently on another customer, brow furrowed. The man he was tattooing said something and the artist smiled at him, a warm, gap-toothed smile she hadn’t expected from someone with his… extensive… uh… modifications. 

“Hey Jane?”

Jane was flipping through a book of original tattoo art. Not that she had a spare inch of skin available for tattooing. Not to mention the fact that adding something new might somehow obscure one of the clues already painstakingly inked into her skin.

“I don’t like needles,” she confided.

“I don’t think anyone actually _likes_  needles,” Jane replied, idly rubbing the tattoo on her kneecap. 

“Why couldn’t I have a drink first? Or ten?”

“Something about bleeding, I think. No idea, really, but maybe we should go try out some more possibilities for my signature drink afterwards, yeah?”

Patterson sighed, watching the artist finish up with his client. He handed the man a folder and clapped him on the back, gesturing toward the front desk manager. 

“Patterson?” he called, flashing the warm smile that had calmed her earlier. 

“Will you come with me?” she asked Jane, clinging to her hand.

“Of course,” Jane assured.

The chair was a little intimidating, all black leather and moving parts, but it was comfortable. The artist pulled up a stool for Jane, who thanked him politely, secretly delighted to have someone not make a big deal of her astonishing tattoos.

“You mentioned on the phone you had a design?” he prompted.

Patterson bit her lip and fished in her bag for a piece of paper folded into quarters. She opened it up and smoothed it out before handing it to him.

Pulling up David’s file had been incredibly difficult, but she’d resolutely ignored the horrific crime scene photos. Not that it mattered — they were already seared into her mind’s eye. She knew she’d see them when she closed her eyes. She knew she’d see them in her dreams. But she was after something a little less macabre for the pale skin of her forearm.

The printout of David’s left ring finger had been stripped of any identifying information and run through a basic image editor to emphasize the major lines, pumping up the contrast.

“I can work with this,” he told her. “I… I have an idea to add to it, if you’d give me a moment?”

“Uh, sure, yeah, that’d be great?” 

Jane’s face was unreadable — not pity, no, not that, but maybe empathy? Pride? Perhaps nothing at all. This was, after all, entirely outside her amnesiac experience.

The artist returned with a fine-tipped Sharpie. He seemed to hesitate before asking a question: “What was their name?”

The kindness in his voice took her breath away for a moment and tears burned fiercely. Her throat started to close up. She coughed once, twice, and gave him the answer: “David.”

A series of dots and dashes appeared curved around the bottom of the print:

-.. .- ...- .. -..

“Morse code,” Patterson breathed.  “It’s perfect,”

He patted her on the shoulder and they began the painstaking process of sketching the tattoo onto her arm.

* * *

Freshly inked and past her bedtime, Patterson stumbled on uneven concrete and into Jane as they left the shop. Jeremy, God of Tattoos, had read her the riot act on tattoo care before giving her up to Jane’s tender mercies for the rest of the evening. She really wanted to look at it again, but the thought of moving the bandage on top of it gave her the heebie jeebies. 

“Did you still want that drink?” Jane asked, steadying her on a flatter bit of sidewalk.

“Ohmygodyes,” Patterson moaned.

“I think I’m gonna call Zapata. The more the merrier?” Jane said, glancing back at the security detail she’d taken pains not to lose.

“Yeah! She always knows the best places.”

Jane pulled her phone out and frowned at the screen. “Crap. My phone’s dead. I didn’t get a chance to charge it when I got home.” Jane thwacked it a few times just in case percussive maintenance managed to restore the battery. In reality, the phone had drowned when she did, but she wasn’t about to tell Patterson that.

“I can call,” Patterson offered, digging for her phone. God, purses are annoying.  She pulled up Zapata’s number and hit call, then speakerphone. It rang. And rang. And rang some more. It went through to her terse voicemail and Patterson ended the call. 

Jane had a really bad feeling about this. And after the evening she just had, she wasn’t about the leave the well-being of her team up to fate.

“Should I call again?”

“No… you know what, why don’t we go by her place? We’re not too far — I bet the guys would give us a ride. Wouldn’t you, guys?”

The tall one flashed them a thumbs up. 

They all piled into the thoroughly unremarkable company car and headed to Zapata’s place. Patterson tried to call her again, without success. They parked in the underground garage and the detail followed them into the building at a respectable distance. 

“You can expense that, right?” Patterson asked the talkative tall one. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “One of the perks.”

“Good perk,” she informed him, like he didn't already know.

They made their way up to Zapata’s apartment and Jane knocked gingerly at the door. There was no immediate answer, but there was a lot of noise coming from the apartment. Definitely yelling. Was that a glass shattering? Jane and Patterson exchanged a glance before Jane kicked in the door. The detail followed them in, guns drawn.

Zapata and Reade had clearly been in the middle of a knock-down drag-out fight — Reade had apparently thrown an ornamental glass ball against the wall and Zapata was breathing heavily. The look of shock on their faces would have been comical if the others had been less worried about them. Given the volatile situation, probably just as well no one giggled.

“What the _hell_?” Jane thundered.

Patterson was really glad she wasn’t on the receiving end of that glare.

It didn’t seem to have much effect on the feuding agents, though Reade did put the ornamental glass ball he had in his hands back in its dish to join the last surviving bit of decor. 

“You guys should go,” Zapata said tonelessly.

“Absolutely not,” snapped Reade. “They have a right to know!”

“Have a right to know what?” Jane interjected before Zapata could open her mouth.

Reade gave the nod of dismissal to the security detail. Jane thought better of them for looking at her for permission to leave. She gave it and they withdrew, gently shutting the slightly broken door.

“Patterson doesn’t need this,” Zapata insisted, shooting her a look full of regret. She couldn’t meet Jane’s eyes.

“Patterson doesn’t like being talked about in the third person. And Patterson was promised a drink,” the blonde said.

Reade, who seemed to have made himself at home, acquired a blue sparkly plastic tumbler from the cabinet and poured Patterson a reasonable portion.

“You can do better than that,” Patterson wheedled, batting her eyelashes a bit.

He poured her another dram and gave her a look that said “don’t push your luck.” She took a sip and started coughing, but Zapata and Jane were too busy not having a staring contest to acknowledge her suffering. Truly heinous drink. Definitely not one she’d push on Jane.

“Why don’t we all sit down?” she suggested brightly. After unleashing the puppy eyes, everyone managed to sit politely in Zapata’s living room.

“Tell them,” Reade urged Zapata, who looked lifeless, slumped on her couch.

“Since you’re so eager, why don’t you?” she snapped.

“You need to take ownership of what you’ve done first, then we can start working this out.”

“Working what out?” Jane interjected.

“I’ve been spying on you,” Zapata said. “I took money to spy on you.”

Patterson gasped. Jane exhibited no outward emotion to this pronouncement. Her capacity for shock was pretty much used up at this point. Waterboarding does that to a girl.

“Okay. And?” 

“And what? What more do you want from me?” Zapata sounded defeated. Whatever anger she might have been harboring had been replaced with a heaping dose of shame.

“Who were you spying for?” Jane thought this was the obvious question.

“The CIA.”

“Why did the CIA want you to spy on me?”

“I have absolutely no idea. I didn’t ask.”

Patterson’s capacity for shock was used up at this point. Not asking questions? That’s, like, not blinking or breathing. What the hell, Tasha?

“Do… do they know you’ve told me this?”

“Don’t be stupid, of course not. I turned in my resignation and planned to be gone first thing tomorrow. But Agent Nosy over here had to intercept the letter and make everything all better.” There was a mockery in her tone, but it seemed mostly directed at herself. “Do you think I just gave up on this life? I tried. God knows I tried. And nothing was good enough, I was never going to escape him, and I couldn’t live with myself anymore. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t look at you.” She met Jane’s eyes now. “I fucked up. Properly fucked up.”

Jane focused on the useful part of that speech. “You said ‘him.’ Who is he?” Reassuring Zapata could come later. For now, something was starting to come together and she needed more information.

“His name’s Carter. He’s a big muckety muck over at the Agency. Expensive but ugly ties. But mostly who he is — is untouchable.”   

Carter. Carter. Oh my God, Carter. 

“No, he’s not.”

Zapata looked at her like she’d grown a second head. “Yeah, he is. He really is. Trust me on this one.”

“He’s not untouchable. He’s dead.”

“ _WHAT_?” everyone exclaimed in unison. 

Jane ducked her head and crossed her arms over her chest, trying to make herself a smaller target. She wasn’t ready to talk about this yet. Maybe ever. And Oscar. Well, she wasn’t about to share Oscar with Kurt’s team. 

“There’s really nothing else I can say,” she offered. “But I know it happened tonight and I know it’s going to go away quietly.”

Zapata couldn’t believe what she was hearing and a slow grin crossed Reade’s face. But Zapata really couldn’t believe what she was hearing and shook her head. “That’s impossible. You’ve mixed him up with someone else.”

Jane’s breathing became a bit unsteady as she considered telling Zapata, in private, about her experience tonight. 

Patterson reached over, concerned. “Jane? Are you all right? You’re looking a little pale.”

“Of course she’s not all right,” snapped Zapata. “I just betrayed her trust, your trust, in the most egregious manner. She’s not all right. Hell, _I’m_  not all right. And good God, you’re not all right, either. Why are you not in your pajamas with a bottle-sized glass of wine?”

“Because I wanted to be with my family,” she blurted. Oh, that was a bit too honest. Too many emotions for this repressed bunch. “My friends,” she corrected. “My friends who I can talk to and be truthful with.”

“I promise it’s not that,” Jane said quietly. “And at some point, I can talk about this, but not tonight. Tonight, I just need _you_ to trust _me_. Like I’m trusting you.”

Zapata wasn’t a demonstrative person, but that kind of loyalty was… well, it was unexpected. She grabbed the hand that Patterson wasn’t holding and squeezed it tightly.

“Okay,” she agreed. “I believe you.”

“And I think someone owes me an apology,” Reade teased. “Do you know what would have happened if Mayfair found your resignation? You should be glad I intercepted it.”

“Shut up, Reade.” Zapata rolled her eyes.

“We can’t tell Weller about this,” Jane said suddenly. 

“What?” Patterson said. “Why not?”

“You know why not.” That came from Reade, surprisingly. But he did know Weller perhaps the best of any of them. “He can’t see straight when Jane’s involved. No offense.”

“None taken. If he finds out, this team is finished. Tash, we really couldn’t do this without you.”

Jane’s earnest voice and use of her nickname made Zapata squeeze her hand tightly. “

You won’t have to,” she promised.

“Hey guys?” asked Patterson. “Can we order a pizza? This cup is making me hungry.”

**Author's Note:**

> Like the episode titles, "Fine Game of Nil" is an anagram for "Meaning of Life." I thought it appropriate for a team-fic!


End file.
